


Kiss me, I'm dying

by afullrevolution



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Family, Insecurity, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Stiles!Forest Ranger, Stiles!Magic, coming to terms, gut wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afullrevolution/pseuds/afullrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone had asked, Derek couldn't have said that he was in any way pleased about the witch standing over him. There wasn't anyone else though, not in the woods and certainly not near this particular bend in the steam. At least, not anyone that Derek could smell above the putrid odor of the wolfsbane that was currently rotting his gut and working its all-too-merry way toward his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. like a bullet in the gut

**Author's Note:**

> Language, not beta'd, gut wounds. Wound happens off screen, but damage sort-of described. No one dies in this one.
> 
> There are problems with sleeping and jet-lag. This is my attempt to keep myself awake until the appropriate time to sleep. Really no idea what I'm doing and don't know if I'll finish it. 
> 
> If you can't figure it out - Stiles is a witch, Derek is a werewolf (shocking, no?). Shot-gun with exploding rounds create a mess.

If anyone had asked, Derek couldn't have said that he was in any way pleased about the witch standing over him. But there wasn't anyone to ask, not in the woods and certainly not near this particular bend in the steam. At least, not anyone that Derek could smell above the putrid odor of the wolfsbane that was currently rotting his gut and working its all-too-merry way toward his heart.

At the moment, Derek was sort of grateful for the smell, could appreciate how it almost drowned out the telling stench of ozone that always accompanied witches. He wondered, as he stared weakly upward, made an effort to glower, tried to look intimidating, what the witch would do. 

Hunters, at the least, killed in the end. 

Witches. Those fuckers did nasty, nasty shit that didn't always involve death. 

As it was, he could see from the witch's utter lack of concern that his attempts to glower were pathetic at best. The witch clearly wasn't bothered. The little shit obviously didn't even think that Derek was enough of a threat to warrant knocking him out while Derek moved toward unconsciousness and died his slow, excruciating death. 

No, the fucker just crouched down next to Derek with apparent blithe unconcern. He didn't even pause before he reached into Derek, looked entirely comfortable digging into a conscious werewolf, probing the shot-gun wound with his fingers. 

If Derek had had extra breath, he would have screamed, howled with the sharp agony. 

The fucker just wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, expression fascinated as his eyes flickered between Derek's open wound and the expressions contorting Derek'S face while he rummaged around in his gut. The sadistic shit's mouth kept moving the whole time, producing sounds that Derek couldn't follow through the pain that roared in his ears and demanded his attention. 

Derek wanted to be unconscious. He wondered if he could will himself to die faster, expire before the witch could do anything.

But the witch grabbed his head and forced eye-contact, hands strangely gentle on the sides of his face, for all that they were stained, dripped with Derek's blood. The shit raised his voice, formed words slowly so that Derek could follow, and told him that he was not "going to do anything terrible, but you need to stay still, spirits be damned, so that I get the all of the bullet pieces out". Evidently the witch had an intense dislike of exploding shells. 

He let go of Derek's face, bent back over the gaping hole, kept talking. 

Hating himself for even wanting to take the proffered hope, Derek found himself clinging to the witch's words, using them as an anchor to keep himself still as the shit reached into his body again. The malicious fucker explained that he didn't have the tools on him to get the bullet out without poking, but he figured a werewolf couldn't take infection so using his fingers would likely be alright. Probably. 

It wasn't. Derek would have told him it wasn't if he'd had a voice. If he had had the strength to move, he would have explained eloquently with his claws that nothing about this situation was ok. 

The witch didn't heed his unvoiced arguments. Just kept working his fingers systematically through Derek's insides, running his fingers carefully along the lines of Derek's gut and probing his organs, telling him that this all might hurt like a bitch but once all the bullet fragments were out, he would neutralize the wolfsbane. Then everything would be ok. Everything would evidently be ok. 

But who was ever dumb enough to believe a witch?


	2. hands covered in blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events must have spiraled out of control if Stiles has to dig bits of bullet out of a guy at 2 am on a Tuesday. Particularly when it's a guy he's never met but really, really needs to keep alive for all their sakes.

It was just past two o’clock on a Tuesday morning and the moonlight was playing across the leaves, leaving just enough light for a human to see by. Despite the idyllic surroundings, Stiles was annoyed to be awake. Had been angry when the sound of shots had pulled him out of bed. But he knew, knew as soon as heard the sound that this wasn’t something that could be put off. It was important, fuck it all, and Stiles needed to see it through. 

He told the werewolf as much as he knelt next to him. And he kept talking, mumbling as he threw his things down and got to work. Tried to get to work. The guy kept moving and Stiles had to shush him, force eye contact and tell the guy to be still already. Stiles didn’t exactly have werewolf vision to see by or a nose to stiff out the problem. He had to do this all by touch and a little magic.

Stiles would have preferred not to have to dig his hands into a werewolf's gut. He really didn't care for guts. Or innards really. No need to pick on the gut specifically (just pick through it, ha). It was, he acknowledged, a very useful part of the body that he, personally, would be loath to live without. 

There were tales, of course, in which people did just that. Crafted perfectly balanced replacements that always seemed to involve copious amounts of sand and the consumption of daily potions. 

Really, why the fuss? Why not just keep the innards in the body to begin with? No fuss, no muss. In Stiles’ opinion, it was very much preferable. 

But as needs must. If he wanted this particular werewolf to live – and Stiles was very invested in just that – then he had to do it. 

Besides, the forest loved the Hales. Even if his own interests hadn’t been involved, the forest would be pissed with him if he didn’t keep the guy breathing. It had mourned without them there to keep its borders, had been horrified when the crazy one had come back, had all but tried to tear itself up over the recent births and deaths. But here was another to replace that dead one. 

Stiles really needed to this to work. 

Stiles could feel the forest watching them, hovering around them, encouraging him to get a move on. He appreciated the power, he really did, but man, he wished it would back off just a bit. It was hard to work smoothly with someone staring over his shoulder. 

Hard also to actually believe that he was actually here in the forest with his hands deep in a werewolf. He really really hoped that there was enough thought left in guy to prevent him from biting Stiles as the guy healed. The last wolf that had tried to bite him, he’d had to kill. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed that, even if they guy had arguably deserved it. 

But Stiles didn’t want to have to kill this one. He was working really hard to prevent just that. Still, he could sort of understand if the guy did want to bite him. This couldn’t be enjoyable. Certainly not if the guy’s facial expressions were anything to go by. 

But Stiles was making progress. The guy was clearly getting better, which meant it was harder going for Stiles. Twisting the infection out around his wrist (so much like the tapeworms that Scott had to deal with) and digging for bullet bits. Almost done and the werewolf's body was so impatient. 

Stiles shuddered in revulsion as the guy’s skin tried to heal around his hands, trying ineffectually to seal in the lengths of intestines Stiles was currently sorting through. This whole thing was nasty. Perhaps it was a bit like guppies biting at his fingers, if the guppies were an almost-sentient gut and bloody as anything. The grasping skin reminded him of a tree slowly consuming metal tags and bikes (he had loved that book as a child ... what was it? The red ranger came calling? … Stiles had been so disappointed when he'd learned about Santa.) 

Whatever the name of that beloved book, much as Stiles was sure this particular werewolf was a lovely man (hoped he was, because where would they be if he wasn’t?) he didn't want to be part of him. He neither particularly wanted his hands to be stuck in the guys gut nor did he want to end up in the guy’s stomach after being eaten. He just didn’t think that being eaten would be pleasant. In fact, he imagined that it might be really unpleasant. 

He wasn’t Little Red Riding Hood. He didn't trust the hunters to come along and cut the wolf open, allowing him to spring intact from the wolf's belly. Even if that were possible, hunters didn't really like witches - and he didn't like them much either. 

Wherever they went, they seemed to feel the need to create such messes. Refusing to see that they usually just made things worse with their vendettas and god complexes. Policing – even with its problems – he totally and completely understood. It's why there were councils and furies. Not that they necessarily did much or even enough. Seemed to think the way of it should be to maintaining a loose, centralized rule with something-just-short-of-anarchy underneath. An oligarchy that just prevented anarchy? 

Whatever political form the council really was – or wasn’t – The hunters were just nasty vigilantes who thought they could do anything because they had big guns. ‘Might makes right’ appeared to be their motto, which was strange given their claims that they were just protecting people. Nice that they had become something people needed to be protected from. 

Well, Stiles would file the paper work for the weapons' discharge tomorrow. Bag the evidence (he wrinkled his nose at a rather large bit of shell that he dug out and briefly resented being a witch instead of a werewolf – this would be easier with claws) and hand it over to his dad. His job was to protect the preserve, after all. He’d just be doing what he was paid to do. If it served his needs and helped his friends as well, well that was just a silver lining. 

He had their plate numbers and had seen them put the guns in the back seat with the ammo. Another citation there. Hopefully the report would serve down the road to add up enough that they would get enough eventually to start looking particularly suspicious. Be taken for gun-runners or at least poachers. Enough that the human police would keep their movements in sight, enough to stop them from being able to act freely. 

Shit, but this intestine just kept going. Stiles hands stilled for a moment so he could level a proper glare the werewolf for having a slightly-longer-than-average small intestine. Because of course the werewolf would act like an ass by having almost eight meters of the stuff. The jerk.

Stiles sighed as the hole started narrowing again knife and Stiles reached for his rather-inappropriate-for-the-task-forest-ranger-knife and cut the whole wider again. He glanced up, saw the wide, wild eyes of the guy. Stiles smiled guiltily, sheepishly, and then immediately tried to still his expression. It really wouldn't do, after all, to look like a sheep just now. Hungry wolves liked eating sheep and this one was bound to be hungry from all that energy expended for healing. 

He finished checking the length and tried to stuff the intestine back in the werewolf’s body before double checking for linger spots poison. He’d been thorough, but still. It wouldn’t do for the guy to suddenly keel over. They needed him to be strong and capable after all. 

Stiles smiled down at his handy-work as the wound pulled close. He patted the werewolf’s wide, pleased with his work and grinned up at the guy, giving him a possibly – admittedly – inappropriate thumbs up with bloody hands. 

Alright then, alright then, he told the guy, while rinsing his hands in the stream. Stiles would just take him back to his place – you know – the ranger cabin just up a ways. The guy could eat, get some sleep. He could meet the others in the morning. Big day ahead and all. Should get some rest. 

The guy just looked at him, stared. Stiles got the feeling that he’d either said too much or too little as he pulled his bag together and tried to heft the werewolf to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Book mentioned : _The Red Ranger Came Calling_ \- http://www.amazon.com/Ranger-Came-Calling-Berkeley-Breathed/dp/0316102490 - by Berkley Breathed
> 
> An average length of the small intestine for a human male is 7 meters. Eight meters is still normal.


	3. the way of things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to come to grips with grief and remember the kids isn't easy. It isn't done in a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever behind with videogames, I just got Fall Out : New Vegas. It's awesome. But then you likely knew that from playing years ago.

Standing and then hobbling forward while leaning on a fucking witch did not work out as smoothly as said witch appeared to think that it should have. Derek was still too drained to keep his own balance, to absorbed in the pain each step brought as it jarred his still-abused and healing insides. It wasn't long before the forest floor proved too much either of them to navigate and the witch tripped, twisting his body even as he fell, so that Derek to fall heavily on top of him instead of on the ground.

It didn't hurt as much as it might have otherwise.

It still fucking hurt, the fall jarring what was left to heal. Sharp fangs dug out of his gums, teeth momentarily pressing against the witch's throat as Derek gasped in pain. It would be so easy just to bite down. 

He forced himself roll off the witch, trapping the guy's arm beneath him, and stared back up at the canopy of needles and leaves above him. 

His body was almost whole, but so very exhausted. Gutted.

Derek wanted to shake himself for being a melodramatic ass. It was time for puns? Seriously? While on his back, down for the count, in a forest he hadn't been in for years. While in the clutches of a witch, he was still making jokes and thinking in puns. Still noticing that this forest with its balances of trees, mosses, and molds  
smelled more like home than any of the other places he and Laura had run. 

His breath caught in his throat. He was only human, after all, and that just. That was worse than the stomach. The worst. 

Fuck. 

He tried to face it. Face what he'd been running from - to - that Laura was gone. And Peter - it must have been Peter based on what the witch had said - was dead too and hunters were swarming his town. His town that he hadn't been there to protect. He wondered if Laura had felt this gnawing, consuming guilt. The one that he'd always pushed back and away. Closed off. 

Derek felt gutted in so many ways. Had been gutted. Was still in the process of being gutted. 

And the witch, the one who hadn't reacted to teeth being pressed to his neck any more than to his fall, was still talking. The little, scrawny shit didn't shut up. Even now, he was bitching about scraping his back on the various bits of stone and forest debris they had fallen on. He was complaining (even as he made no real attempt to move) about Derek's weight on his arm. Taking a breath only to start again about how this was no-definitely-not-going-according-to-plan-why-couldn't-he-ever-catch-a-break-of-late? 

Derek didn't move, too tired to care, too exhausted to have any sense of self-preservation left. He almost wished the witch would just enthrall him, take away his ability to care or think. Derek imagined that it might be relaxing, to be that numb. To be a shell without a host. 

But the fucking witch didn't appear to have any inclination to enthrall Derek. Rather, he wiggled against Derek, still tugging ineffectually at his arm. Derek couldn't bring himself to summon the energy to move. Half hoped it would provoke the witch. Evidently, it didn't. The witch eventually gave up his struggle and curled against Derek's side, muttering now about how Erica was going to laugh. Evidently there would be gales of laughter. Even Isaac might smirk and Boyd - who knew! - might get that crinkling around his eyes that signified glee. Derek, according to the witch, really needed to keep an eye on that one. Boyd evidently played his cards close to his chest.

Derek inhaled sharply. That - that right there was the reason he had kept coming even when he'd known that what he'd hoped to find was gone. Those three names. Ones that he hadn't even known up until that moment, but signified the tentative, hesitant lines of connection that Derek could feel in his breast. That stopped him from giving up entirely. That had kept him grounded when he'd crashed his car a week ago when he'd become an alpha, the sudden influx of power throwing his muscles off as the new strength in his hands had snapped the steering wheel and his feet had punched through the floor. It had been those three lines that had kept Derek from loosing control, stamping down on a howl of agony, as he'd had to tear his way out of the wreckage of Laura's beloved car. It was those three lines that arguably were keeping him grounded even now.

Derek latched onto the witch's voice, to the gust of his breath on Derek's shoulder. It was calming somehow, kept the world at bay to listen as the witch told Derek that he was sorry for him, he really was. Here Derek was barely into his tenure as Alpha and he already had three of the most disrespectful, hard-assed betas in the world. Three beautiful, wonderful friends who had your back when you needed them. Even if they couldn't follow a direction without complaining and made Stiles' life a living hell, made Stiles feel like he was continually rolling that damned stone of Sisyphus' up the hill, only to have it roll down again and again. 

According to the witch, Derek might have shit luck, but he was a lucky bastard. 

Lucky to have three great people. It had been hard, Derek needed to understand, for the three of them. Marauding Alpha biting unsuspecting city employees for who the fuck knew what reason. The witch had barely been able to keep them calm enough not to cause any damage. The witch felt guilty about that, evidently. He had been reeling under the death of the returned-wolf (Laura, Derek's mind gasped) and hadn't been able to pull everything together before "those fucking hunters" had gotten to town to complicate things and the crazy-red-eyed-beast had managed to bite three good people. 

Which, you know, Stiles didn't have anything much against werewolves in general. They were good for the area, really. Kept things stable when there was a good pack around. But three new betas? That was asking for trouble. Lucky for the town, there was Stiles. Granted, Stiles had had a lucky break when the that-crazy-son-of-a-bitch had tried to attack him. Luck for him, Erica and Boyd had called him when they were attacked (he'd told them to stay the fuck out of the forest for a bit). Still, it had forced Stiles to spend lots of good energy and groceries taking care of the suddenly-orphaned (for their own good!) new beasts and keeping them domesticated and all. 

But really, that wasn't even that much of a trial. He had been surprised that there was a third - really obvious with the way Isaac kept sniffing his sandwich during their weekly lunch (Stiles had warned him against that sandwich. Anyone could tell he needed his red meet and he kept trying to eat chicken). He'd never done that before. 

The forest had helped, of course. Had been almost giddy after days of mourning. That had helped. Really, it looked like it was going to be quite the spring. Poor Scott with his allergies. There was going to be so much pollen. 

Which was why Stiles could understand that Derek was going through a hard time at the moment. But really, he had to stay and take on the mantle that had fallen to him. The betas _needed_ him and the forest would pout if he took off. Stiles would help. He would. And it would be great even. Eventually. Perhaps not immediately, but it would be awesome eventually. 

The "no" that gusted from Derek's mouth was barely more than an exhale, but it brought Stiles to a shuddering halt, the witch's body trembling against Derek's side. Derek heard the snap of his jaw, felt the new line of tension coursing through the slender frame. He could smell the confusion, the anger that underlined it. He heard Stiles take a deep breath through his nose and felt him exhale through his mouth, the air gusting around his body, curling almost, soothing tense mussels. 

It reminded Derek why this wouldn't work. Witches really could never keep their magic to themselves.

"Dude, you can't just say no. You don't ...." Stiles was wiggling again, gently trying to move his body so that he could lean up and look at Derek's face. 

Derek forced himself to actually form words. "You're a witch. Packs and witches don't mix. For good reason." 

Stiles started vibrating against him. "Seriously, that's what you're going with. After this whole forest-experience? You're going with the 'you're a witch, so I can't trust you.' Dude, my house isn't made of ginger-bread and I don't lure children to their dooms. Or new betas," he snapped, his eyes shooting daggers toward Derek. He huffed out a breath, pulled at his arm again, and then let his body relax against Derek's. "Shit man, this is so unfair. Not fair at all. You can't just ... fuck man. You can't just abandon them."

Derek felt like a knife was twisting in his gut. Again. It was as if just because he could heal, people thought that pain didn't matter. He hated being in pain, hated being able to feel right now. Hated the fact that being an alpha evidently meant that you couldn't just loose yourself. Somehow, it kept pulling him back. Those three dreadful and wonderful - dreadfully wonderful? - ties just kept tugging at him. He hated them and wanted so much to solidify them. To make them tangible. 

"I won't" Derek growled. "I'll take my pack and take care of them. But you won't be apart of that. It really isn't up to you."

Derek felt Stiles' body tense again and then suddenly relax on the next exhale. The excitement, the nervous energy, seemed to drain out of him. It felt like it was draining him as well. Stiles was drumming the fingers of his free hand, tapping, against Derek's ribcage, replacing the gentle fidgeting that had been going on earlier. "Seriously dude? Fuck that shit. Fine. Whatever." Stiles ran a hand over Derek's stomach and sighed. "Come on man. Stand up already. My arm is numb."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that this makes sense. Let me know if it doesn't. Or about errors.
> 
> AND - I need a name for a cat. Just a normal house cat. Anyone, please give me a house cat name.


	4. And then there was Boyd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek wakes up from disturbing dreams of sunshine and picnics and then meets Boyd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm. Had Issues finding a balance with this chapter.

Derek didn't entirely remember getting to the house, but he did have some vague recollection of stumbling interminably forward until he had been pushed through a door of a ranger's cabin, thrust into a chair with a casserole pan in front of him, and then shoved into bed. He would later think that he tried to leave the witch at some point in a half-hearted (it was all he had left) sort of attempt (that perhaps wasn't recognizable for what it was), but the house's smells did him in.

It was hard to turn away when he was so tired and the place smelled of bits of pack. As if they spent time here. Didn't live here, but might as well have. Derek might as well have been a starving man led toward a mirage of water. It wasn't possible to turn back because the damned hope pulled unrelentingly.

So Derek didn't run, didn't flee into the night. He let himself be pushed into a bed, figuring somewhere in that little piece of brain still operating that it was unlikely that Stiles was going to steal his individuality and/or will-power at that point. Yet, even as his eyes glued themselves shut, Derek was still partially convinced he would wake up re-gutted, enthralled, or otherwise enchanted. 

Or, half hoping he would. The emotions were conflicting, flickering, and intense. But ultimately, the fears and concerns, the hopes of no-tomorrows, were drowned.

Because below all the conflicting hopes and longing, the tormenting anger, Derek felt safe and that scared the shit out of him. Witches, as his hind-brain told him screamed, were not to be trusted. Ever. They were known for their silver tongues, their reassuring words, and for fattening you up for the kill (or possession). Just consider where poor Hansel would have been without Gretel.

Derek might have been partly delirious. 

After all, the unfamiliar scent of pack on the air was intoxicting. Hard to reject and Derek found himself burying his face into the pillow that had somehow migrated under his head. 

The feathers seemed doused in the scent of Hales. As if they had been using the bed - three of them - piled around each other as they slept. The effect lent a feel of family, home, and a bit of contentment. 

It was that feeling that he chased into sleep. That scent which prevailed over the lingering belief in his imminent demise. The contentment overrode the terrors of the night and built around him until it pulled him under, stealing away the remains of his consciousness. 

Derek dreamt of dinners on lawns, fanged grins, and of hugs. Of family gatherings with people he'd never met, but was happy to see. Who were _his_. 

It was a relief after weeks of nightmares, of being afraid to close his eyes during his trip across the country on foot and by bus after the car had been totaled. It really was not the safest way for a werewolf to travel, what with the other packs, witches, and hunters - talk about a fucked up yellow brick road strewn with lions and tigers and bears. Oh my indeed.

The exposure had been wearing, draining. Arguably why he hadn't reacted in time to the hunters. 

\------

The relief trailed into his first conscious moments the next morning when the sun woke him, burning down on his face, lingering dreams of standing outside and looking at a blue sky surrounding him. The disconnect created some confusion about the bed he was in and the cat stretched across his sternum. The one appeared to be measuring him, weighing him, and oh so clearly finding him lacking. 

Derek frowned at it, trying to clear his head and take stock of his surrounding. He could hear someone in the house, downstairs. Reading if the sounds of pages turning could be trusted. 

It wasn't the witch, for all that the entire structure of the tiny house smelled as if magic had been worked into the beams with a soft cotton cloth. It smelled as if Stiles let off magic the way most people sweat. As if magic just sort of leaked from his pores. It lent a sort of astringency to the air, a sort of harshness that was balanced by the smells of pack and the two apparently clashing scents complimented each other. Mixed into a comfortable, domestic medium. It made the magic seem almost docile, friendly, playful even. 

As Derek breathed in, trying to pick apart the smells and find what to expect downstairs, he absently noted that the house was most decidedly not built out of gingerbread. That to say, he still wouldn't have been surprised if he were to go outside and find that it had been settled on chick legs. It took a special kind of witch after all to stick to itself, to stay sane and remain alone when there was so much more power - and protection - to be had in a coven. 

Which suggested that either Stiles was bat shit insane - and given the last night Derek wouldn't count that out - or he had another source of power. 

Derek's train of thought broke when he caught hold of the right scent and his chest itched. The individual downstairs was one of his wolves. Derek rubbed a hand across his chest towards his heart, disturbing the cat. It dugs its claws through the borrowed t-shirt and into his skin, glaring. It bristled when Derek pulled himself out of the bed. Derek couldn't find it in himself to care. 

He wanted to go down and see, make the person a reality instead of a strange (possibly witch-induced) fantasy. He felt as if putting a face to at least one of connections would somehow make his situation at least a little better. 

He stood up and the cat finally let go in a huff, landed awkwardly on the floor in a squirming shuffle, stalking angrily from the room. If Derek had owned anything, he might have expected to find it shredded. 

Derek grabbed the jeans that were folded haphazardly on the floor next to the bed and pulled them on without a second thought. They were freshly laundered, smelling like the house. About the right length but tighter than he normally wore them, as if the person who bought them was the same height, but thinner. At that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care that they caught uncomfortably around the knees as he moved. 

He slunk down, stood at the bottom, and stared at the large man curled around a book at the table, as if his body would shelter the mass market paperback that was dwarfed by his hands. 

The guy looked at home, comfortable and completely absorbed in whatever he was reading. Derek stood and stared, his heart beating faster and those new feelings - that array of new instincts that he still didn't quite have a handle on - expressed pleasure. 

The guy noticed Derek standing near the wall when the cat looked up with a jerk from its food bowl and pointedly turned its back on Derek. The guy stood, looked fleetingly embarrassed as his gaze traveled from Derek to the book in his hands and back. He looked as if he had been caught out in a guilty pleasure. He put the book down quickly on the table, his body blocking it, and reached a hand out, before looking just slightly awkward about it. As if he wasn't sure what the protocol was. 

Derek could have told him that what he was doing was in no way proper protocol. He could have let him know that you didn't offer your hand to your alpha. It was generally considered better form to offer your neck.

Derek experienced a strong urge to sooth the guy's anxiety, to make him feel at ease, and to force a submission. He found himself grasping the proffered hand and meeting his eyes, the other man looming over him. 

Boyd - this one had to be Boyd - tried briefly to maintain eye contact like a human, Derek could feel the struggle between maintaining the human veneer of learned human protocol and the instinct to submit. The guy looked down after only a beat and the tension ran out of him. Derek wondered if the smooth tilt of his head and exposure of his neck was conscious. Derek grasped the back of the guy's neck just briefly, and the rush of the guy's rush of satisfaction was heady, as if for some reason it had very much mattered to Boyd that Derek accept him in his pack. 

The loop was broke when the cat walked over, took a swat at Derek's leg and then stalked from the house. 

Boyd watched it flounce away and then jerked his head smoothly in the direction that the cat had just left, told Derek in a stable voice, just shy of hesitant. 

"Dandelion." At Derek's raised eyebrow Boyd continued, "The cat. Stiles said something about lion's teeth and wild beasts of the Savannah. He went on about it for a while once, about long majestic histories, connections to the stars, and Egypt,"  
he looked slightly, just ever so slightly, embarrassed again. 

"Stiles likes them and they respect him more than they fear us. Erica did go after Dandelion once for tearing a line in her stocking, but the look of hurt outrage on Stiles' face when he saw it in her clawed hands put paid on that activity."

Derek nodded, could feel the nerves radiating off of Boyd for all of his appearance of calm assurance. It threw Derek off, the emotions that he could feel traveling toward him. He'd always been at the other end of this exchange. Doing the endless sending and only partially receiving. No wonder Laura had gotten angry whenever he did. Without the balance of other pack members, the pull of only one must have been dreadful. Even now, Derek almost desperately wanted to make the other wolf calm. He just. Just didn't know what. 

Derek patted his arm, feeling rather useless. 

And there were the crinkles that Stiles had mentioned, the slight movement in the muscles around Boyd's eyes that were easy to notice when Derek could feel the shift in his emotions, the pleased serenity. The two sat there in a silence that was almost comfortable.

Derek wondered if there was tea, wondered if he could help himself. It wasn't exactly his house, for all that it smelled closer to home than anywhere else did at the moment. 

When Derek didn't speak the werewolf continued slowly "Stiles thought it best that one of us be here when you woke up. He claimed that it shouldn't be him, because some people don't appreciate having their lives saved and might just as soon rip throats out as look at their saviors." Derek got the distinct feeling the last part was a direct quote. 

Derek nodded, thought about asking if he'd been chosen or volunteered for the post. He opted for "When were you bitten?"

"Three weeks ago - Erica and I together. We were out walking and" his shoulder's twitched up and down again "the wolf went for Erica" Derek felt a flash of anger "and I got in the way. It bit both of us. Erica called Stiles - figured that he could find us and get us out, given, as you know, it's his Forest and all. He was furious when we told him a wolf had bitten us and run off. He was even angrier when the bites had begun healing over by the time he got us back here. I suppose we're lucky he's a witch, because I don't know what we'd have done without him." 

Derek raised an eyebrow. A werewolf thanking his luck for a witch. Not a safe mindset to take. Not something he would encourage any of his to think.

His. 

He felt like he was stuck in a repetitive loop. The same thoughts in his head over and over, the disbelief and wonder. The inability to reconcile anything that was happening.

Even though one of his was here in front of him, he didn't know what to do, or what that should mean to him. He had been born into Laura's family. Adored her, followed around like a puppy when he was still learning to run. She'd always been bossy, she'd always been the one to pick the games, choose their destinations. When they'd left, it hadn't been a stretch to keep following her. 

He did't know these three. He hadn't picked them, didn't understand them for all that they were suddenly family. And they didn't know what it meant to be werewolves. Derek didn't think that flipping them on their backs and biting them was something that they were ready for.

Boyd was still talking "Stiles tried to explain what we were and has been keeping us here for the most part. Said it was for the best given we were without a leader and that might make us ungovernable. Said that the one who bit us was going about it all wrong and that he'd get someone better for us." 

Derek couldn't help the snort. It just didn't sit. Not with all the shit he and Laura had gone through. "Witches don't usually support the stability of a pack. They don't usually just hand over new betas." 

Boyd shrugged "Stiles will. Stiles doesn't exactly know a lot about being a werewolf. Certainly knows more than the three of us, but he keeps muttering about how he is a lone ranger and not meant to have the care of a pack while he makes us dinner and turns down our covers at night. He fusses about whether we are eating enough - because we might forget that our metabolisms run faster now - and puts us all together on the bed to watch movies claiming that werewolves are a tactile bunch who need to bond... In short, his behavior hasn't changed in the least, he just uses new excuses." 

Derek wondered if there was some kind of grand enchantment that the witch was working on.

"Stiles, you know, he said to trust you." Derek arched an eyebrow skeptically. Boyd's eyes crinkled again "He claimed that it took a special kind of anyone to not lash out while someone dug around inside them. He claims that we can learn a lot from you about control from you." 

Derek folded his arms across his chest and looked at Boyd skeptically. 

He asked anyhow "What happened to Peter?" Boyd shook his head, like he didn't know the name. "The one who bit you." 

Boyd flashed anger, evidently still upset about that then. "Stiles happened to him. Said that it wasn't right to take away choice. That it wasn't done by anyone marginally sane. Still, Stiles might not have taken care of him so thoroughly if the idiot hadn't tried to attack while he was out with Scott two days later. Tried to bite Scott while he was with Stiles. I don't know what Stiles did, but that guy won't be coming back," Boyd paused and looked at Derek "Clearly, given that you're here. I can show you the grave." 

Derek saw red and knew it was visible with the way Boyd went so still and was tilting his head back. It was horrible, in a way, the rage that suddenly shot up, the uncertainty that rolled over Boyd's serenity. Derek hated the conflict, didn't move until the rage had simmered down slightly, left him feeling sick. He nodded at Boyd. "Another day," he told him, digging the claws of his feet into the floor. 

The witch did know how it was to kill a werewolf then. The witch whose home he was currently sitting in. The one who had been taking care of his pack. Derek wanted to rip his throat out in revenge, even if Peter's death had been deserved. He wanted to tear him to pieces and leave the pieces scattered through the woods. 

Which would only bring the hunters about face. Only bring them down on his pack when they inevitably lost control. 

Boyd shifted uncomfortably, a slight movement like he wanted to get out, move toward the door. Derek pulled himself together. As far as first meetings went, this was not an ideal one. He cleared his throat "Peter was ... once my uncle," he settled on. Unsure of what Boyd knew. Of what he was ready to share.

Boyd's hands clenched on the table, unclenched. And silence stretched out with none of the comfort of moments earlier. "My sympathies." It was quiet, honest. Derek found himself, amid the tumult of other emotions, liking this one. Hoped that the others would be cut from a similar cloth. If they were, perhaps he could do this. 

"You should have had a choice" Derek said, breathing in to keep himself in control, reaching for words to reassure the guy. Derek had never excelled at reassurance. "But we're family now." Derek thought it might have been the most absurd, possibly trite sentence he'd ever uttered. Even if it was true. Still, so inadequate and almost maudlin.

Boyd nodded and looked for the world as if the words Derek had spouted were gold. 

Derek felt uncomfortably as if he'd gotten the first meeting mostly right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witches houses: 
> 
> The witch in Hansel in Gretel has a house made of ginger bread. She is working on fattening up her ... guests ... for later eating. 
> 
> For those of you are unfamiliar with the mysterious Baba Yaga, she is an incredibly powerful supernatural being (of three) - usually a witch - who lives in a house on chicken's legs. For those of you who play old video games, she's the main villain in Hero's Quest II (so you want to be a hero?). Usually, however, she can go either way. Sometimes she's evil, sometimes she's good, and sometimes she just is - and no one knows what she's thinking because she's beyond all that. Stories talking about her are usually pretty awesome.


	5. rage and conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Derek goes to express his anger in a healthy and well thought out manner. The confrontation does not go as planned. But then, it's hard to follow a plan when you don't have one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about societal justifications for killing somewhen. When that is acceptable or not.
> 
> Well, that and how you could track someone who smelled like their surroundings.

Derek couldn’t really decide what he thought of Stiles as he pushed into the woods. The guy had saved his life, given him shelter for the night, and seemed to think that Derek was the perfect Alpha. He was also the witch who had killed Peter. Even if it appeared to be entirely justifiable. 

Stiles’ scent was hard to follow, perhaps as of yet too unfamiliar for Derek to easily pick out of the masses of molds and mosses in the woods around him, each demanding his attention while lines of ants lent the air a spicy, pepper smell. He tried to scent the air, but had to shake himself to get rid of the sense that it was going to his head. 

There wasn’t a clear scent of Stiles, of his coming or going. Unless you looked for the undercurrent of magic that Stiles seemed to leave wherever he went. The steps he took, the air he breathed, all seemed to absorb it. There were certain trees that reeked of it, as if Stiles had spent considerable time leaning just there, sitting in roots. Apparently, Stiles particularly liked the older ones. Near those trees Derek spotted the occasional stash of supplies. There were some curious collections of twigs and an occasional sigil, the meaning of which Derek failed to grasp. Other than that they seemed ... happy ... to see him, buzzing pleasantly under his fingers when he finally worked up the nerve to touch one. 

There was something in the marks, in the leftover packets and satchels, that felt like Stiles if Derek focused long enough. As if even underneath his constant noise Stiles was a buzz of energy. There had been an undertone of it in the air of the ranger's lodge, that had worked its way into Boyd's smell making it hum just a touch. Derek had wondered what it was. It reminded him, somewhere in the tumult of his thoughts, of the air right after lightening has struck down.

It bothered Derek just how pervasive it was as he ran through the woods and the fact that Stiles didn't seem to quite smell of anything but magic and forest. He was tracking a man who left more sound than scent, following what felt like a ghost. That someone could hide like that, smell less and more than human, made Stiles seem dangerous, something almost like mysterious. It made Derek question Stiles humanity, for all that he looked human. Sounded human. Somehow seemed human while he was right in front of you. 

Less so when Derek realized that Stiles was easier to track for the noises he surrounded himself with, the sound of crunching pine needles that was overlaid with an endless murmur of words and crackle of static from Stiles' radio. 

It still made Derek hesitate to approach Stiles like this. Question the instinct that had settled when Boyd had mentioned Peter – so angrily – to find Stiles and settle the score. Was it ever safe, after all, to make demands of a witch? Not that a lone witch could safely do something to him while he was whole, while his skin was closed and anger bubbling right beneath it.

Stiles was clearing a trail miles into the preserve, cutting back some of the undergrowth with sharp hacks and Derek could smell the roll of Stiles own low-grade frustration as he dropped down next to him. Derek felt almost relieved that there was at least the smell of emotions, that there remained the pungent smells associated with hormones and skin to rely on. That and the reverberating sound of Stiles’ heart, as if Stiles chest were an echo chamber. 

It was hard to keep hold of any anger at Stiles, difficult to maintain a healthy fear of witches with this particular one in front of him. The guy looked so. Earnest. And rather harmless what with the small shriek and the disgruntled expression he threw Derek. It reminded Derek of Dandelion. 

"Fuck, man," Stiles said, dramatically clutching his chest, as if he were catching himself "you can't just do that. What if I was some unsuspecting human? What if my heart was bad? What if I had been working on something sinister! It could have all gone wrong," Stiles was already catching his breath, moving on as if nothing had happened, turning back to his work, "I am guessing you already met Boyd. He's awesome, no? So ... steadying. It's amazing really. I imagine him as a giant safety blanket at times. Erica may be pissed that he tried to protect her, but I think it might be luck for all of us that he did. Because that man in a pack just calms shit down" Stiles made an airplane of his left hand to demonstrate. 

Derek didn't wait to let his rage die, he stalked forward grabbed the collar of Stiles' green buttoned shirt. "You killed Peter."

That made Stiles pause, look regretful. The air took on that sour smell of sorrow. "Yeah, I did do that. I could say that I told you all about it yesterday, but..." He sighed, breath puffing across Derek's hands. "You could hit me if you like? Just remember that I don't heal as quickly as you all do," Stiles added hurriedly. He didn't smell like fear, more resignation. 

Derek wanted to. Really wanted to. He wanted to slit the witch’s throat for taking away the remnants of Derek’s family and even more for polluting the memory of a beloved uncle with the sordid present. There was a flash of thought underneath that, just a sliver of an idea, that Derek could bite him. Fill the gap. 

That thought had Derek releasing Stiles, stepping back. Stiles tripped, stumbled and landed on his ass. His nose wrinkled and he brushed off his legs, leaned back on his arms, looking up at Derek towering over him, clawed hands in fists at his sides. 

Stiles stared up at him, brown eyes flickering over Derek's face, fingers tapping on his legs and decidedly not smelling of fear. He got twenty spaced taps in before his voice started along again, "I'm sorry that I had to take someone from you. I really am. I can't replace the loss." Derek wondered if somehow Stiles knew what he had thought, what he wasn’t willing to entertain. It stopped his words, added to the lump that made his throat ache. His eyes burned.

Stiles evidently did not do well with silence. He twitched on the ground, shifted. Looking increasingly like he might burst. "Your shoulders seem broader when you’re standing like that" Stiles told him, one eye closed, hands spanning outward as if measuring. 

Derek didn't know how to respond to that. He stared down at Stiles, his brow drawn. Reached for something to say, anything, and gritted out around the lump in his throat "Stay away from us."

Stiles bristled, the almost gentle slump of his shoulders stiffening. "What?" he bit out "You’re still on that? What are you going to do, try and tell them that they can't come near me?" He drew his legs in to stand up and managed to stumble again. Derek took a step back, out of range of the windmill of Stiles’ arms. Stiles got himself under control, stilled for a moment, before his hands started tracing their mad patterns through the air again. "You do that and you'll have one hell of an uphill to climb."

Derek knew it. Had seen it already with Boyd, could assume it for the others. They wouldn’t go easily, wouldn’t understand why. He was their unknown, the boogey man in the corner. Particularly after Peter. But still. "You're a witch Stiles. You aren't safe for them," Derek told him, narrowing his eyes, trying to look certain, confident. 

"So? What? The slimy witch shouldn’t be touched? I'm not saying that I'm safe to be around. None of us. And clearly I'm not saying that I haven't ever killed. Obviously, I am a cold blooded killer. One needs to be terrified of me." the witch paused "Look, yes, I've killed people, but the reasons were always socially acceptable."

"What." Derek was unsure what to do with that, how to turn it to make sense. He shuddered, he thought he might know. He hated the idea of death. The finality of it.

A flicker of guilt across Stiles’ face, "Possibly poorly worded that. But, I meant it. I may have killed people, but it was never intentionally murder. I didn't plot or lay dastardly traps. I protected. If I were ever caught and tried, I wouldn't be imprisoned. Probably. So, you know, socially condoned taking of life."

"It doesn't work like that that. You can't just write it off. You killed someone."

"I didn’t want to!” Stiles snapped, frustration mounting, ozone burning. The insects around them went quite. “But if means anything, I didn't enjoy it, I didn't even particularly want to do it, I threw up afterwards. Not that that part means anything. I'm just saying, it was horrible, miserable, and I ate vegetarian for weeks afterward because the ghosts wouldn't go away. I kept thinking about it and couldn't stand the sight of raw flesh. I mean shit, I am against capital punishment and privatized prisons. Man, how do we live with this crap without compartmentalizing? I'm not proud of what I did and there are many, many nights in which I wish I could have not killed, but then, you know, I remember why and I would do it again. Which makes me a disturbed man. I am disturbed by myself."

"You rationalized away killing someone and now you joke about it," Derek's expression was grim. His entire demeanor stiff. Anger flickered around the lump in his middle. 

Stiles' breath gusted from his mouth, his eyes widening in surprise, fingers trembling for a moment and Derek found he couldn't hold the anger. "It's either that sometimes or turning the metaphorical gun around. What was I supposed to do? It’s not like I could turn him over to the police. They aren’t equipped for a psychotic alpha!” There was something behind that statement. “I could, I suppose you are thinking, have craftily tricked him into my lair, chained him up and hooked him to a generator to keep him weak?" Stiles eyes flickered shut for a breath. “There are some things,” Stiles ground out, “that are worse than death.” 

Stiles opened his eyes again, his face clearing. "Dude, whatever you think of me, I am sorry that your life has been shitty, but you know, I have a vested interest in maintaining your continued - and free! - existence. That said - preferably said existence will stay here in town despite my unsavory company. Because those three, like I said, need a guiding hand. And I may not know you terribly well, I'm hoping that your hands might do that guiding. At least, it's your responsibility to do so. Although, like I said, last night, if you hurt them, I'll find a way to take you apart and the Forest will help me do it." Stiles looked stricken at his words for a moment, mumbled something about apparently being unable to keep himself from threatening people. 

Stiles looked back at Derek and started speaking faster, as if he saw something in Derek's face that made him pause.

"But I'm also not seeing out to hurt you, or any more than I already have. Or, you know, on purpose. I usually don't mean to do most of the shit I end up pulling off." Stiles took a deep breath. "Look, I'm a witch who lives in the deep dark woods near a town that's a fucking beacon. I can entirely appreciate that you are not fond of me right now. I might not be fond of me either. But believe me, memory will do wonders regarding your ability to retain a full impression of the pain." Derek started stalking a slow circle around Stiles. "And seriously? I saved your life and now you're what, waiting to kill me?"

Derek was listening carefully and for all his words, the incredulity lacing his voice, Stiles didn't seem affected one way or another. He wasn’t afraid, wasn’t worried. Still frustrated. "Perhaps I just want to pay in kind?" 

Stiles twitched, smiled slightly "Dude, that is a great line. It's ambiguity is to be applauded. I mean, shit, wow, that could mean anything. Just about anything. Very nice. Look, there were hunters in my territory that I needed to be rid of. I didn't really set out to kill the alpha, but it had killed Laura Hale and I wasn't about to let it go bite more people, certainly not Scott. Scott is enough of a puppy already and I would rather him not get involved in all of this."

"You don't have to worry about that. You won't be either. They are mine to worry about, not yours any longer." 

Stiles stopped in his tracks. "You really think that. You really think ... Well. Fine. I'll bide my time. I'll get you my pretty, and you're little dog too!" Stiles started cackling, seemed to realize what he was doing and slapped a hand over his own mouth, looking sheepish. Somehow, for all the harsh words that had torn through the air, Stiles' threat cleared it. Stiles was turning red and mumbling "Well, that slipped out, but you know, hard not to imagine you throwing a house on top of me right now. Let's just pretend you didn't hear that one."

For all that Derek had come here to tell Stiles to stay the fuck away because he was a threat, Derek walked away having a hard time seeing him as a danger. 

Derek turned around and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles quotes from the movie version of the Wizard of Oz at the end. You probably got that.


	6. a quick bite to eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek meets Isaac and Erica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very quick addition.

The other two were nothing like Boyd and much more of what Derek had expected to find in newly-bitten wolves. They were irascible, barely contained, libel to fly off at an off handed remark, desperate for approval. Boyd seemed to think their interactions were normal, just smiled at them indulgently. 

Their first meeting was stilted when Derek arrived, Boyd opening the door of his small apartment while the other two sat stiffly on the couch, vibrating in their seats. It felt like there was a giant hole in the room, the buzz of energy off kilter. 

Derek's traitorous thoughts supplied that Stiles would have set them at ease, calmed the tone by controlling the flow of conversation. The three knew Stiles - Derek was their unknown - and Derek wished for a moment that Stiles was there. In that chair that almost felt sentient given how much it stank of magic. 

Isaac - the young one - stood, looked almost guilty as he slunk toward Derek, his hand out. Derek reached for it when Erica whispered under her breath for Isaac to "just do it" and the kid was suddenly throwing his arms around him, the upsurge of nerves and fear almost a relief for feeling so normal. 

Derek wrapped an arm tentatively around him, and the entire tenor of the embrace changed when Isaac apparently took that as permission and gripped him tightly. The kid beamed, his smile bright when he turned back to Erica, whispered loudly that 

"Stiles was right. Werewolves do hug." Which led to a rather vocal argument about the wisdom of taking candy from strangers. 

Derek didn't know how to respond,   
not with how Erica smirked at him and told him that they were pleased to see that he was so pretty. At least if they had to hang around him, he was nice to look at, even with the constipated face. 

Derek just raised an eyebrow, couldn't say if Erica was plotting when she looked at him with those narrowed eyes. She could be planning on baking a cake or to kill him and he wasn't entirely sure if he would be able to tell the difference, she ran so hot and cold. But she was smart, her wit sharp and her willingness to protect her pack clear. 

Isaac was an easier read. The guy was younger than the others and for all of his eighteen years acted like a puppy toddling after its master. He seemed strangely unbalanced, like he was desperate for Derek's approval. Constantly looked over at Derek for confirmation, for a slight nod of acknowledgment. 

Derek couldn't exactly claim to be thrilled about having three new pack members, not when all three were new. When he had to take over, take charge of a group that was already almost a family. That wasn't used to him, to having a clear leader. Not when they didn't take this seriously, appeared to think of being a werewolf as a game. 

But their commradery was infectuous. The three of them - for all of their age - acted like puppies who just wanted to play. 

The pull of them, between them, threatened his control, made his knees ache and his claws want to jump out of his hands. It reminded him of being young, still in the growing stage, when the urge to run, to let loose sometimes grew overwhelming. 

But, for all Derek's own insecurities and his doubt that this was going to work out well, he thought by the end of the evening that if he had to be stuck with any three, these ones were good people. Derek found himself wanting to protect them for all that he had no idea how.


	7. a subtle lure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which some time passes.

Over the following weeks, Derek watched how the pack circled Stiles. How the betas seemed to feed off of his energy. 

It was hard not to notice when training in the woods invariably led to Stiles' door for soup and cookies. When disagreements among the three were taken to Stiles to moderate whenever Derek expressed a lack of concern. When Stiles always seemed ready with a hug and an ear. When Stiles actively encouraged it.

He wasn't exactly subtle, but still suspiciously hard to fend off. 

Stiles, the conniving little shit, would open all the windows and cook. He would hum under his breath and let the smells and sounds seep through the trees to reach out and grab at them, pulling them in closer. 

It was impossible to avoid and the pack was invariably ensnared, their noses twitching, the three puppies bodies' tilting unconsciously, somewhat comically, in whatever direction Stiles' lodge was resting for the night. 

It was hard for Derek to say no. Not when Stiles didn't ask. 

Derek had tried to be proactive. Had informed Stiles "this has to stop." 

Stiles had just grinned, played the innocent, his cheeks ridiculously full of the onion pancakes he had fried for their dinner, and asked around his mouthful "Stop what? Eating? I know it seems like a lot" little bits spewed out of the corners of his mouth Wbut I can actually fit three more in. Wanna see?" 

Derek had been derailed, had denied any desire to witness such a spectical, but Isaac and Erica had pleaded, avowing disbelief. Stiles had looked so very fond, preened at their request, and to Derek's surprise, leaned back toward him. Told the two "your Alpha said no, so no it is. Another time and place," he'd gasped and declared that they could have an eating contest. There had been chaos. And pie. Lots of pie. 

The pie aside, Derek couldn't help but see that Stiles always looked happy when they descended on him. He seemed to assume that the natural place for the pack to be was sprawled out in his yard, across his limited furniture (One memorable time piled on the heavy wood table that served as kitchen and work table). He took it all in stride and maintained control, slapping hands away from cooking pots with a blithe disregard for claws. Set them to chopping or stirring if they showed up before his appointed dinner hour. He would grin while the betas tore apart his kitchen and then sigh contentedly whenever his eyes found the shadow Derek had angrily buried himself in for the evening. He looked like having Derek lurk was evidence that everything was fitting together quite nicely.

And Derek, Derek couldn't seem to disagree with that look despite the dusty layers of distrust that continued to linger. Distrust that still prompted to sniff anything he ate near Stiles carefully. That made him wary about sharing their training schedules. 

Yet he couldn't ever quite seem to figure out how to tell Stiles off. Any attempt - he could admit they were feeble - seemed to pass right through. It was like trying to tear fog to pieces. 

So Stiles continued to thrill over the puppies' new tricks. Would watch, eyes shining with poorly concealed anticipation as they showed off their flips and turns. All before he would hug them, and tell them how _proud_ he was of them. 

Derek couldn't stand it and under no circumstance wanted it to stop.

That feeling of security underlying his suspicion was was arguably why Derek dragged himself to Stiles when he happened upon the harpy in the woods. Why instead of going to his dingy flat he carried himself the shorter distance to Stiles' lodge. The claw in his shoulder burned, screamed in agony as he moved, the razor edge biting deeper into his shoulder, slicing at his lung.

Stiles was there even before Derek reached the door, shoving Derek to the ground and examining the gleaming claw, muttering under his breath about how he knew - just knew - this kind of shit was going to come down the pipeline. You couldn't have such a rapid change in the status quo without bringing something of a shit storm before the dust truly settled. 

Derek tried to laugh at that, to tell Stiles that he was mixing his metaphors, but the blood in his lungs made his voice rasp and gurgle. He still managed to gasp as Stiles pulled at the claw, his hands wrapped in oven mits. Stiles was still muttering, talking directly to Derek now as he yanked and tugged, "Seriously? How did she think it was a good idea to attack a werewolf?" Stiles pulled viciously, finally set his feet against Derek's chest and used the leverage to get the thing out. Derek let himself fall into the dirt, Stiles collapsing next to him, their panting breaths mingling above them. 

"You know," Stiles finally huffed. "your puppies would have found that easier. Super strength and all." 

"What you did worked" Derek grunted out once his lungs had reassembled. He turned his head away from Stiles for a moment to spit out the excess blood that had tried to drown him. 

"But I made it worse before it got better!" Stiles punctuated his anger weakly in the air with a limp finger before he let his arms fall back down next to him. 

Derek closed his eyes, focused away from the itching skin, concentrating on how Stiles smelled, how their scents were mingling again, what with so much time spent with Stiles hands on him in some rather intimate ways. 

"They're puppies," Derek finally said when he opened his eyes and saw Stiles staring at him. 

"Yeah, yeah, I knoooow. I keep telling you that."

Derek huffed a breath. The moonlight and proximity, not to mention the relief of having that fucking claw out of him, was making him talkative. "They didn't choose this. I don't want them t ... to think it's all bad." he gestured to the hole in his chest, the one that was almost closed now, that barely ached any longer, for all that they were bathed in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My neighbors are fucking again. At least it sounds like he is lasting more two minutes this time. But, shit, her voice is getting high. I do wonder what the likelihood is that she is faking it.


	8. a witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk and a claw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some blood in this one. Same levels as there's been.

Derek took to following Stiles on his patrols, watching him or the cats that sometimes tagged along. Dandelion took to climbing up derek's body when she got tired and holding onto his shoulders with her claws. 

Stiles would follow the trails, clear them, wander off into the woods without seeming to notice. Stiles rarely, rarely did anything that looked anything like magic. He just sort of endlessly leaked, as if the forest used his as a conduit. Stiles didn't seem to care, seemed to like his company, would arch his eyebrows when Derek appeared, but even that vanished and he would start talking as soon as Derek appeared. Usually as if Derek and the forest were buddies getting to know each other. 

Stiles was on a rant one day about the difference in mushrooms and how best to eat them when Derek broke in with "You're a witch." He had intended to continue, to actually try and ask a reasonable question. Instead, his flow hitched and his words hung in the air like an accusation.

Stiles snorted, sounded annoyed when he replied "Yes, thank you Derek. For all the identity crises I have had, this is a new one. You know, what with the studying and training, I never noticed I was a witch. Figured I was just into some really intense new age bullshit." Stiles tripped over a root in front of him, righted himself before continuing.

"To demonstrate my appreciation for your eye-opening statements, I will create something for you. What's your birthday?" Stiles paused for a second to stare back at Derek, before shrugging and waving his hands upward toward the stars. 

He didn't wait for an answer, but plowed onward with an assurance that the words would be there within his reach. Derek envied him at that moment. "Never mind, I'll draw on the power of the stars and read your frowns to divine it." Stiles scowled at him from beneath the brim of his ranger cap before snapping on his sunglasses, popping a bubble with his chewing gum, and turning his back, mumbling something about "I thought we were past that. Now i need to be alone to commune with the trees", Stiles stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, and walking into the woods. Derek had to repress the urge to follow him, to knock him flat.

The next day Stiles slapped an admittedly well-crafted, if-gaudy crystal-pouch necklace into his hand, muttering that Derek could do what he wanted with it, but Stiles would prefer if he shoved it up his fine ass in place of the dead bug already there. 

Derek wasn't sure if it was protection, a curse, or a joke. He was inclined to think it was a joke. Perhaps a joke that got carried away. He kept it anyway.

\-----  
The claw in his shoulder burned, screamed in agony as he moved, the razor edge biting deeper into his shoulder, slicing at his lung.

Derek was trying to gasp as Stiles pulling at the claw, his hands wrapped 'round with oven mits. "Seriously? How did she think it was a good idea to attack an alpha werewolf?" Stiles yanked, pulled, finally set his feet against Derek's back and used the leverage to get the thing out. He collapsed next to Derek in the dirt, panting breaths mingling above them. 

"You know," Stiles finally huffed. "your puppies would have found that easier. Super strength and all." 

"What you did worked" Derek grunted out once his lungs had reassembled. He turned his head away from Stiles for a moment to spit out the excess blood that had tried to drown him. 

"But I made it worse before it got better!" Stiles punctuated his anger weakly in the air before he let his arms fall back down next to him. 

Derek closed his eyes, concentrated on how Stiles smelled, how the scents were mingling after so much time spent with Stiles hands on him, in him. 

"They're puppies," Derek finally said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I keep telling you that."

Derek sighed. The moonlight and proximity, not to mention the relief of having that stick out of him, was making him talkative, made words easier to find. "They didn't choose this. I don't want them to. To think it's all bad," he gestured to the hole in his chest, the one that was almost closed now, that barely ached any longer, for all that they were bathed in blood. 

Stiles was rolling onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Derek, his free hand poking the wound. His eyes felt like they were boring extra holes. 

Derek hated the silence, didn't want to wonder what Stiles was after. "How did you become a ranger?"

Stiles let himself fall back, but inched his hand alon the ground slowly toward Derek, let it rest when their pinkies were just touching. Stiles was very pointedly not looking at him, staring into the trees.

"How does anyone? I got my degree, learned maps in school, did my time in Philly watching to make sure drunk frat boys didn't try to lick the liberty bell all so that I could earn a permanent post here. There's not a lot of competition for this post. The pay is unsurprisingly shit and It's considered cursed."

"Cursed."

"Yeah, wolve howl in places where there are no wolves. Evidence of some crazy shit. You wouldn't believe it if I told you."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Nope," Stiles popped his 'p' "all highly improbable." his hand reached out and fluttered over derek's before he was heaving himself off the ground and saying, hand reaching down to help Derek up, "come on the , let's get some food in you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A argument with a friend about the justification of a nation-state placing claims on 'national treasures' stolen a hundred years prior. I am not sure what the argument actually was about - neither of us had a real stake in it - but the glaring got intense.


	9. The Coven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Derek really hates witches. He sort of likes Stiles though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language, not beta'd. Blah blah blah.

Derek liked the stairwell. Liked using the railings and jumping from floor to floor. It was a harmless game that no one could see. And he liked the breath rush of breath. 

What he did not like was opening the door to his floor to find Stiles passed out in a little heap. So little, too little, for someone who stood so tall, who could fill a room by tipping his head back and laughing. 

This. This wasn't the way it is supposed to work. No, not at all and Derek's body jerked, confused at the twist and pull of instinct. He wanted to tear after what - who? - did this. He wanted to rend them to pieces. He wanted to make Stiles comfortable. Force him to be whole.

He stood there, inhaling,trying to find a way clear. There wasn't any experience to fall back on, no clear cut agreement, no signed contract saying 'if this, then ...'. Nothing he knows. He was trapped and spinning, a wolf in a cage, back and forth again. He was staring and that wasn't helping. That road led nowhere at all, so nowhere good.

But why was Stiles _here_? Anywhere else would be better - going to anyone else be better.

Derek shifted forward, needing information. Moves until he can take in the smells along Stiles' body, trying to find the answers, trying to find why Stiles was here. 

Stiles ... was all wrong, there was something wrong, the scent wasn't right. The sweet honeysuckle, the constant reminder that of wood and moss. It was overlaid with something almost syrupy, sticky, tacky. 

Something growing, as if there was some sort of perversion spreading through Stiles' inert body. 

It was sick, unclean and Derek felt a whine building in his throat. 

Derek tried to find it there, wanted to get it off, lightly ran his hands over and across the clothes on Stiles body. Clothes that were suddenly in the way, stopping him from properly smelling, from seeing, from touching. Possible from fixing. His hands paused over the hems and seams of the clothes. 

He felt lost there in the apartment complex's hall. 

So lost that he could feel three whines building in his chest, snapping him out of it, making him move, making him check the neck, the arms, drag Stiles inside his own space. 

And there Stiles was, being pulled into Derek's nest, unconsciously leaving another mark, carving another space as Derek undressed him, smelled and then saw the spots begin to break out all across his back. The blisters that look so angry, that bubbles up under Stiles' skin, proliferating as Derek watched. 

Derek searched, any clue, any ... found the page of a book pinning to the inside of his shirt. Half scribbled on Stiles' arm. Derek supposed it explained the 'why' behind Stiles' appearance here.

Evidently what you do when a forest witch gets poisoned with malicious magic is burry them alive under an old tree and let the forest take care of it. Wait until the 'sign' and then dig them up again.

Derek was not entirely comfortable with that.

He did it anyway. 

He hated that the sign was evidently Stiles' heartbeat suddenly sky-rocketing. Or, it's what he took as a sign. Because he wasn't waiting to find out what happened next. 

\-----  
The walk back was. Surreal. in Derek's humble opinion. It was watching Stiles more off balance than normal, covered in dirt and seeming to be. Fine. Derek watched Stiles' bare back, looked at the smears from the blisters. Flaking off. Talking about how the Forest was always so good to him. Using the dirt and the roots to pull out the impurities. 

Derek broke in. Arguably better this time. "You keep talking about the forest like its alive."

"It is. In a way. You know that sort of singularity sort of way. Hive mind like. There are trees and magic and bindings and together they form the corpus of the Forest. She has opinions, feelings. Not in a 'she'll write you poetry type of way', but she gives strong impressions."

"And she talks to you."

"Well, yeah. Not in words, but it would be hard to be her guardian if she didn't communicate in someway or another. You'll see."

Fuck, but Stiles could be frustrating. He spoke in so many metaphors, smilies. Gave so many round-about answers that it was hard to pick out what he meant from what he said. Derek looked at Stiles incredulously, steadying him as he stumbled. Seriously. A ranger with footing that bad was astounding. 

Stiles took exception to his expression. 

"No, I'm serious. I am the forest guardian!" Stiles went with the jazz hands he seemed to love. "you guys left and the forest was lonely, so lonely. She latched onto me. 

"It was trippy man. Here I was, twelve years old, skipping along through the forest to go to grandmother's house in my red cloak and suddenly the forest just curls around me. Pulls my heart out and decides to keep it in a locked box in an egg in a quail (my heart is tiny, no joy in it, you know, like the grinch) in a ... what was it? in a stone in a deer? Or maybe there was a tree and a pine cone involved?" Stiles trailed off and looked at Derek expectantly. 

Derek had no idea what he was talking about. "I think your metaphor got away from you."

Stiles shrugged, looked around at the trees, "Fuck man, yeah. It did." He paused, seemed to get lost for a moment, perhaps consider what it was he was trying to say. "Anyhow, you all take off, the forest was lonely. There are those lovely ley lines (three 'l's, score!) running through here and the forest is just thrumming with magic. It doesn't like being alone and prefers to be properly protected" Stiles paused to pop an extra 'p' and gave Derek a thumbs up. 

"You all" Stiles waved a hand that appeared to encompass Derek's left arm and the general direction the betas were in "are supposed to be here for that. When you reneged on your contract, I was conscripted. I tried to dodge the draft man. There was a lot of dodgy footwork and attempts to escape across the border. But no luck. Do you realize how creepy it is to live in Philly and have a Forest in California get in contact with you? Let me tell you man, there were times I was hard pressed to keep my head down and not seem crazy."

Derek snorted and Stiles leaned closer to hit his arm, grabbed it when he stumbled over his own feet and gave Derek a glare for good measure. 

"Anyhow, evidently, a witch works ok to mask other, apparently inexplicable magic that may show up in the area. Doesn't do as much to stabilize it - pack magic can do wonders for that and she's probably thinking she scored something sweet given how smug she's been - but back then, shit man, she decided that I would have to do. She locked down on me while I was bumbling along through the woods and hasn't let go of me since. I run her borders, clear her trails, track her wild life. Because - man - she's the Forest. She can't see through the trees" Stiles giggled and Derek rolled his eyes. "She needs someone to look after her. Like having a personal trainer, or a physician.

"So yeah, I don't have as much control as a coven would, but I also don't _need_ anyone else. The forest keeps me sane and I only occasionally grow lichen."

Derek froze and stared back at Stiles, unable to move a muscle as he pictured the colorful organisms starting at Stiles' neck and spreading down his arms, coating his fingers. 

And Stiles was grinning, throwing his head back and laughing until he hiccuped. 

\------  
Evidently the spell came from witches. A nasty forewarning to other witches. Just in case they might be there to stake claim first. A coven would have been able to deal with it, disperse the magic among the group and considered it no harm no foul. A greeting card, if you will, an expression of intent. The messenger to announce upcoming events.

Stiles had ... absorbed ... the entire thing. Evidently 

Derek really hated witches. 

\------  
Stiles was throwing up in the corner, blood everywhere, and Derek wanted to know how this was his life. Not the blood or the vomit, there had always seemed to be plenty of that and he figured that with the age of his pack, there would be plenty more. 

What he didn't understand was why he had one witch vomiting in a corner after helping them against a coven. 

Witches weren't supposed to do that. They were supposed to support their own kind, defend their own miserable existences, and not give a crap about a mangy (even Derek could admit) pack of wolves. 

Witches were dangerous.

Yet here was Stiles, letting the bile rise in his throat because he'd just severed the larynx of another witch. A witch who had formerly been part of a coven, one which had heard just how fresh the Beacon Hill's pack was. Evidently figured that thinning the herd, taking a straggler wouldn't be that hard. 

It might not have been if Stiles hadn't turned on him. When the guy had written him off because - after all - what was a lone witch without a coven at his back? 

Evidently hell on wheels. Or at least Stiles was. What with the lightning (not Stiles'), the sparking hair, the twisting vines, the sudden rush of movement, and the perforated larynx. 

A rather clear announcement that Beacon Hill's pack might be small, but it wasn't exactly weak.

Which, in Derek's mind left a whole host of problems. Didn't create them. There's wasn't exactly a new situation. 

There were just lots of questions still unanswered. 

The coven had - perhaps fortunately - tried to snatch isaac on his way to visit Stiles. Perhaps fortunately, those crystal pouches Stiles had given them evidently weren't jokes. Isaac freaked out, Derek came running. And so did Stiles with the forest at his heels. 

Stiles who absorbed the lightning the guy called down and now had hair that reminded Derek of the Bride of Frankenstein. 

Derek had an urge to comfort, to put his hand on Stiles' neck, on his belly, and tell him that it would be alright. Instead it was Isaac shuffling over to him, patting his shoulder, hugging him and crying into his shoulder.

Derek didn't like being jealous. Didn't like the twist in his gut at that continued easy comradery all of them seemed to possess. 

How the others seemed to think that Stiles was theirs. That they could come and go as they pleased. That Stiles belonged to them.

It was arguably why Derek showed up that night in Stiles' cabin. Why Stiles opened his eyes shrieking and throwing pillows at Derek before his hands found the vase on the nightstand to be lobbed as well. 

"Dude, man, shit" Stiles gasped when he finally stopped to see. "I wouldn't have added you to the wards if I had known you were going to creep in like this." he muttered, slapping his hand against the wall to get the electricity flowing, to turn the lights on, and snatched the vase back out of derek's hands. 

"Stiles." Derek was grinning, he couldn't help but grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, never thought I would have a week in which the only wifi I could find was at Starbucks. Starbucks. I shouldn't travel someplace new and have my first question be "but where is the Starbucks."
> 
> Which is partly to say, that I am calling it in on this one. There is more one could do and say, but the next two months are looking ... packed ... Added to which, internet access and electrical outlets are at a premium. 
> 
> So, I hope you enjoyed a rambling piece.


End file.
